By Veronica Kornberg

Cuddles under the fake fur blanket. No ideas only things, things.

Runs beside the car, a moon-faced dog refusing to be left behind.

Twig or light? What scratches at the window?

Woman-shaped room inside a violin, full of resin dust and a voice from a well.

That one note held and held, then quivered silence. Both true.

Hard bench under the big-leaf maple. The yellow carpet.

Stands my hair on end, electrical.

Slogs up the asphalt hill, sweat beads in the small of the back.

Props up its feet in the chapel ruins.

Says Oh love, bring prosciutto and melon, sauvignon blanc.

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Veronica Kornberg is a poet from the Central Coast of California. Recipient of the Morton Marcus Poetry Prize, her work has appeared or is forthcoming in numerous journals, including Alaska Quarterly Review, Rattle, Indiana Review, RHINO, Plume, Cream City Review, Calyx, and Beloit Poetry Journal. Veronica is a peer reviewer for Whale Road Review and a restorative gardener. veronicakornberg.com